Soaked Her Blonde Hair Black
by razmataz13drums
Summary: 'I'm in a rut of secret loneliness, self destructiveness, hopelessness and every other negative 'ness.'  It's about who to let in. To make something of your dreary life- turns out drive comes from the people you meet. Emily/Naomi. Emily POV.
1. Embedded In My Chest

**Hi :) erm im not really sure what this is apart from just insomnia at 3am on a stupid school night. I have no idea where this is going just some thoughts that spewed onto page. I hope you like it anyway.**  
><strong>Also i'm sorry about the high levels of swearing at the beginning it gets a little more censored as it goes along I think. Also I dont have spell check so...<strong>

**everyone does these so here goes- Disclaimer: Dont own skins, for entertainment purposes only.**

Emily

I'm in a rut. A huge fucking cavern of secret loneliness, self destructiveness, hopelessness and every other negative 'ness' you can think of. A clash of crappy situations, crappy people and crappy debilitating pasts. The problem is is that whilst i realise this mess im in I can't do a single thing about it. They say ignorance is bliss right? And whilst those cliched thrown around expressions usually irritate me to no end, i do begrudgingly see the sense in that particular one. I know what I am, what I'm doing is not okay, not healthy. But it's escapism at its finest. It would all be sunsets and chocolate flavoured apples if only I wasn't so painfully aware that I was a raging fuck up. If only I could not care. Caring is exhausting. Caring is simultaneously my downful, the thing that keeps me from moving on, moving out, away, into someone new. But it is also that single fragile thread that goes to my heart, the black and white flag signalling the only reminder of my own perservering sense of humanity. Its human to care. Very fucking human. Which is also very bloody irritating. Hence the whole rut situation.

I moved to America, you know the free land, the dream land. The place where people care just enough for you not to be too bored, but never enough to pry into your private life. You take what you need without needing to give what precious little you have left of your soul back. Best of both right? I knew I didn't really mean that, not truthfully, again with this self-aware bollocks. Sure I knew keeping people at arms length meant they had all the room they'd need to take a swipe and never hit me. I might get left with a graze, but I would have never cared enough about them and vice versa for it to do any real damage. But it also meant that they also would never care enough to step forward. Neither to take me in their arms nor to kick me in the balls, figuratively speaking of course. My fear of reaching out was due mainly to my expectations, or a lack thereof. My dingy past shattered my expectations of people, and I guess of life too. Why should people care about me? I mean lets be honest and I'm not having a pity party but I really am not special. I don't have that PhD in Philosophy that I'd always admired my year 8 teacher for having. Nor was I a paramedic: an everyday martyr, where saving lives and making a difference was just part of the job. Something I'd yearned to be after watching Casulaty. No, my life in reality more closely resembled those you see on Jeremy Kyle. Allbeit a non chavy, less incestual version of. But one thing I could take from that show was that atleast i have more than one functional brain cell. But then I think of people like Stephen Fry, Ernest Hemmingway, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Smart or dumb; the world doesn't care, it will still find a way to fuck you over.

I find that I can bury these thoughts to the back of my mind when mindless mundane tasks fill my time. Its a never ending monotomy of unpaid bills, the van breaking down, coffee spilling on my only clean work shirt, taking out the rubbish. Its a long and boring list of unfortunate events that are my life. And as sad as this sounds, well yeah it is pretty sad, is that my only current form of solace is golden brown, fury, and named Marcel. And considering that I have met people that have named their dogs after Lord Of The Rings characters (yes Frodo was one of them...), I don't think Marcel is particularly odd, especially since I got him in France. I was in a new country a different world, I needed some form of comfort. One which didn't make fun of my poor attempts at speaking French. Well he couldn't voice it at any rate. I'd spent 4 years there after haing moved there for a 'fresh start' when I was 18. Funny that. It still haven't let it stick in my brain that it doesn't matter how many borders or seas you cross, the one thing that remains painfully constant is the one thing you were wishing to change. No I'm the same scared, lonely, pathetic girl I was back 'home.' The only thing that's different is the layers that I can hide myself with.

"Hey Emsie, need more SM STAT" was said from behind me, followed by a click of their manicured fingers.

"Huh" I asked distracted, not even looking over my shoulder from where I was grabbing a straw for the customer's 'Tropical Paradise' flavoured smoothie I had just made.

The issue wasn't just that she'd called me Emsie.. urgh, as she so insistently does. Or the usual annoyance thats caused by the unhelpfully named drinks the shops sells. The names of the drinks in this shop are not self explanatory. It's not something simple like an apple and bannana smoothie, instead the names are Mediterranean Mania, Tropical Paradise, Lucious Rainbow, Island Ice, Exotic Blend etc. The result of this is that I have to look up every time what fruit goes in which, and my enthusiasm for this job does not allow me to invest time to simply remember the recipe off by heart.

No, it was more that my fellow co-worker had recently, due to an increasing demand of more healthy alternatives to coffee, insisted on using 'shorthand,' as she'd called it, to save time and 'increase productivity.' So whenever she talked to me now whilst we were working, she abbreviated every word she could. I still hadn't quite gotten all these crazy language shortcuts down so had no idea what the hell SM meant.

"Skinny Milk Emsie, Skinny Milk! SM SM ! Got it?" Liz replied.

"Right" I sighed. "Yeah I got it" I said whilst handing over the guy's Tropical Paradise with a smile on my face.

To which he replied; "Thanks, have a good day." He smiled back, his genuinely, and promptly left the shop. I watched him leave feeling a quite welcome sense of contentment wash over me. I guess there is still a little hope left for humanity.

I turned around, back into the bussle of life, and into the back of the shop to get the skinny milk. Oh no sorry SM. Maybe if I try to tailor my thoughts a little it might stick. Yeah, maybe a little optimism might be okay. Little steps and all.

* * *

><p>I'd just finished my shift at 'Lucious Bar' and having no other plans meant I could savour the walk back to my flat. I guess I was also vaguely hoping that something interesting would happen, I didn't feel like being holed up in the flat especially since I knew my flatmate wasn't in at the moment. So I lit up a fag and walked lesuirely down the street, to which Marcel gave a little bark in what I knew was dissapproval.<p>

Yeah Marcel went with me everywhere, including sticking to my heel even at work. You'd think that Mark, the guy that runs the bar and is subsequently my boss, would never allow that. Indeed it didn't go down very well when I first started, but actually Marcel can be the most passive dog in the world when needs be. He's a service dog, I have problems with my heart, so actually he's more useful than anything. He can open doors, grab stuff in his mouth to pass to me which is very fucking handy. And to be honest none of the customers can see him behind the counter anyway, and even if they did he's a brown and white Border Collie. You know, the type of dog where even Alistair Campbell turns into gooey mush after laying eyes on him. I walked passed the local park and decided despite his judgemental ways Marcel really deserved to go for a walk, he really was a fucking great companion.

I liked America. It was so different from England, and not neccessarily in a bad way I guess. But different culture, different world. Even the chocolate tasted different. In many ways this was such a relief; the reason I moved was to forget right? Trouble is when a place is different its like a constant comparative inside my head. I often found myself making note of completely pointless things; like how bright everything was here. Okay that didn't make sense. It's obviously much sunnier here than back in the Uk, and the roads and pavements are a lighter colour so just walking around was fucking blinding. The American sweets though were pretty amazing, and if you ask my flatmate he'd say; 'the huge arse portions are fucking mint Emiliokins!'

I guess that's Cook for you. The most irritating, impulsive, reckless, funny, and oddly charming person I have ever met. But really if you can get passed the twattish exterior you find that he's also incredibly loyal, gives surprisingly good advice -not that he ever acts upon it himself- and can actually be incredibly kind. Whilst he isn't the most emotionally available guy, he is exactly what I need; someone who has my back no matter what.

We met about a year ago when I was working behind the bar at a club called 'The Long Ivory.' He came in wearing one of his polo t-shirts done up to the top, a beer already in hand raised above his head in a kind of salute, and a huge Cook grin plastered his face. Then he shouted; "Cook's 'ere ladies!" I remember rolling my eyes and going back to serving people- I was used to people like him, and generally, in a place like this; they were really annoying and persistent.

It wasn't very long later when he came up to me and leant on the bar whilst eyeing up all the women around him, that smirk still in place. He finally turns to me and gives me the same fuck-eyes he's been giving everyone else.

"10 effin tequi's babe"

"Sure thing" I replied, not giving him much attention, which must have been what made him more interested. On one level Cook's the most simple guy you'll ever meet; he thinks he's God's gift. So, of course when any girl doesn't start drooling after his oh so very not sexy smirks then immediately you have his attention.

After clearly not getting the reaction he expected Cook asked whilst wriggling his eyesbrows suggestively: "What's the matter with you? Wanna hand getting rid of some of that tension love? A tongue maybe? I'm not fussy."

"Just because someone isn't attracted to you doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them. Ever thought you're just not as good as you think you are?" I replied more bored than angry.

"yer not a muff muncher are ya babe?"

"None of you're fucking business."

He holds his hands up and says; "S'alright with me babe, I'm down with having you to myself."

Thoroughly unimpressed I reply; "That's really not gonna happen."

"Come on lets willy waggle, you need to taste some pure 100% English meat babe, we gotta stick together."

"You're absolutely repulsive." I just give him a cold stare and slide over a tray with the 10 shots on it.

"Mmm playing hard to get, I get it" And with that he downs 5 of the shots one after the other, "Ahh.. Good fucking stuff this is Muff Monkey" He winks and strolls off into the action.

I sigh. 'Fucks sakes'

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Title: Night Time by The xx<strong>


	2. A Sunday Smile

**Sorry for the wait my internet was down for bloody ages.**

**So I started writing this when being a third wheel was being just too uncomfortable and awkward and just bleh. Does anyone else look at other peoples relationships and think- 'christ most people in a relationship become dependent and whiney and giggly and just really annoying, oh and start talking about such trivial things like how many x's their boyfriend/girlfriend has put on the end of a text?' urgh irritating! Man I must be in a bad mood, sorry folks**

**ps- sorry if I use the words tricky, hey ho etc way too many times. I don't know I'm doing it I swear**

I'm not sure where I need to go, who I need to be. It's no good being yourself when that's so fucking lame that you disappoint everyone in your life. You've got to figure out what's acceptable, what's considered normal behaviour. Then adjust your outward abnormalness accordingly. For example; through experience I've learned that some people find it quite obscene to find girls attractive when you are a girl yourself. My dad being the biggest teacher in that lesson. He saw me kissing a girl once out on the street. In retrospect, that was a stupid place to kiss someone all out in the open, but hey I was caught up in the moment it couldn't have been helped. He dragged me away, huge hands gripping fragile bones, shoved me into the car- the moment I realised how awful true silence can be because it allows the anger to be heard, and fuck does my dad speak it loud. He didn't tell anyone. He didn't actually say anything. At the time I was immeasurably thankful for that. Too fucking relieved to think too deeply about the reasoning for his silence. I'd felt like I was in debt. That might be hard to understand but childhood is a tricky thing. Your parents surround you in their environment, you're too involved to even think to question anything that they tell you, not until you've grown an independent brain anyway. But this wasn't me actually agreeing with my dad (and my mum too when she finally did find out) that what I was doing was wrong; I was just going with the motions, my feelings. My brain, independent or otherwise, didn't come into it, didn't have a chance to process everything. And whilst I've never been terribly insecure I couldn't deny that everyone finding out put me on edge- this was too new too tentative too deep. I was walking on egg shells, I was too young to be thick skinned enough to deal with my dad outing me. Especially since I wasn't too sure what that even meant. He didn't keep it to himself to protect me, or maybe he did in his own twisted way- there we go that transcendent glimmer of hope I still carried around with me. Again with that very fucking human quality that just won't let go of the tiny possibility that there was a good man in my father somewhere. But really I don't think I could ever understand him, however many years wiser I got to reflect on it. Maybe I don't want to anyway. So lesson learned: in front of people like him tone down all homosexual behaviour. I have to say that lesson I'm still trying to fully get rid of. I've gotten much better though, people helped, France helped, Time helped.

I was finding that these walks home from my various places of work were my time of unhelpful contemplation. I say unhelpful because all I did was dwell, and never really came to any kind of conclusion. But perhaps dwelling in itself was a good thing, I don't know. But then again my inability to move on from my past is probably the reason I'm in my rut to begin with, and clearly my dwelling wasn't helpful in this fact. As I get nearer to home, or temporary home -I haven't thought that far ahead- I can hear the thrum of the electronica beat even a block away from the flat. I didn't have to get closer to know that it was coming from our flat and Cook was at the centre of it. True to my instincts; as I round the corner I could hear the thumping of Portishead playing and could see a mass of people dancing through our living room window. I walk up the stairs- the lift has been dodgy for a while now and I would rather watch The X factor than get stuck in that thing- and come up to the outside of our door. The music was so loud the bass thudded almost painfully in sync to my heartbeat. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, slowly exhaling with a smile. This was confident Emily- it wasn't fake, we all have different facets of ourselves. It's just some parts of ourselves our harder to tap into than others. Luckily for me, and pretty much everyone else on the planet, alcohol helped to achieve this feat.

I opened the unlocked door, (that was always a thing when there was a party) not being able to open the door very far due to the sardine-like way the room was packed. And bloody hell it was so fucking hot -like those apple pies you can get from McDonalds- and it smelled like sweat and weed; a lovely mix. I look down to my loyal companion, Marcel, and patted him reassuringly on the head, he was easily sated, bless him. I slid my way through the thriving mass to the kitchen to grab myself a drink of some sort. There was a couple kissing roughly against the fridge so my only option was to peruse the vast number of bottles covering the worktops and the table. Disregarding a bottle of purple liquid that was ominously labelled; 'Beetroot Liquor.' Mmm that didn't sound quite so delicious when stone cold sober. Instead I chose a bottle of blue stuff called 'Life Cry.' It wasn't just the original WKD blue colour of the liquid that made me curious, it was more that the label had a bleeding polar bear on it... Oddly intrigued I looked around for a clean red plastic cup, but the only ones around were on the floor or tipped over. I shrugged and decided to claim it for myself and took a swig from the bottle.

Mid-swig is when Cook swaggered in with a blonde attached to his side. Upon seeing me he quickly relinquishes his arm from around the girl and lifts his arms outstretched in the air with an infamous Cook cheesy grin on his face.

"Emilio babe!" He declares to the room, not caring that the still snogging couple whom now had progressed to the early stages of third base couldn't give two shits, or the blonde beside him who had a blank, dazed smile on her face -clearly completely zonked. He comes up towards me chuckling and gives me a one armed hug, and says in my ear whilst clinking his bottle of beer with my own bottle.

"I like your style Ems." I laugh back and again just give a shrug which he can only feel. He rests his chin on my shoulder so he can speak to me so I can hear over the noise.

"How was work? Any more tossers bother you?" I'd had a couple of guys hit on me at work in this club I work at, and whilst they were completely harmless, Cook's protectiveness of the people he cares about tend to blind him of any reasonable behaviour he still has in him. And honestly whilst this trait often led to embarrassing and irritating situations, it was something I really fucking loved about him.

"Nah It's all good Cook" I reply. He releases himself from the hug, but still remains close.

"I shut the door to your room, and the washer (Cook's lazy way of saying utility room) is now the Cook shag fest extravaganza," he said grinning and humping the air to emphasise his point. Thoroughly used to Cook's general Cook-ness I just roll my eyes smiling at my insatiable friend. We only had one bedroom in our tiny flat -which Cook had so gentlemanly given up to me. The door is a little crap and when you fully shut my door to any normal person you wouldn't be able to open it. It takes a certain knack of kicking the right place at the bottom of the door and lifting the door up while you turn the handle for it to grant you access. Basically meaning that no one will go in there and have sex on my bed and I didn't have to carry a key.

I look behind Cook to look at the blonde girl he came in with eyeing her up. She didn't seem to be the typical easy lay Cook went for, I was pleasantly surprised to note. She wore a black and navy blue stripy cotton material dress that looked like a long top, and wore a pair of tights with black heels. Her make-up, whilst pretty heavy, wasn't caked on, and she didn't look like she was a by-product of David Dickinson, who doesn't look nicely tanned but actually orange like he's been fucking tangoed.

I nod my head in approval and say; "Not bad Cook, didn't have to drug her did you?" I say only semi joking, knowing full well by the look on her face that this really wasn't beyond the realms of possibility. In fact it was a lesser possibility that he'd actually managed to woo her with his charm. He tried to look offended but spectacularly failed as his grin stayed just as cheekily spread across his face.

"Just a little bit of the good ole stuff. Gets 'em nice an' loose." He says winking. "And hey why am I talking to you ma lovey dovey, I've got people to do." With that he kisses my cheek, turns round and puts his arm back around the blonde girl who had been staring at Cook's arse through our entire exchange. I don't hear what Cook says to the girl as they head back out amongst the fray, but I bet that whatever it was wasn't PG rated.

I take a good chug of the near fluorescent liquid, feeling it burn my throat as it went down. It's that burn that makes you question every time why people could do this, day in day out. I guess it's to get to that point where you don't have to think. Alcoholism is for people that want to fill a void. Whether that's themselves or something they're wishing they have in life but don't. I understand that, I really do. My fillers act more like a patchwork. I smoke, I drink, but not enough for it to be a real issue. Okay so the smoking one isn't good I admit, especially with this heart condition I have. But I have medication and mostly you wouldn't even realise anything is wrong with me. Along with cigarettes and alcohol my other patches/fillers are music, and Cook, odd acquaintances, Marcel, and a few old friends. I have things in my life. I mean sure they're not strong enough to heal all the gaps. It's like a great grandma's patchwork that's all frayed and tattered. It keeps most of my spirit intact but there are those holes that are slowly letting my spirit ebb out of me. As much as I wish to pretend I am so independent and strong I feel like I'm just waiting for something or someone to 'fix' me I'm not sure, but I don't seem to be able to do this myself.

Anyway right now? I don't see why I can't just BE in the mean time. Like I said dwelling is my fucking road block- I don't know how to get rid of it or around it so I might as well just ignore it right? There's no point thinking at this time. Sociable, cool Emily is so much more fun- for everyone involved myself included.

* * *

><p>So I go out into the fray and just let go, enjoy myself and like Cook said; just 'get loose.' Just not for the same reasons or by the same method of a load of drugs. Losing yourself in the music has got to be the best, most raw feeling ever, you know that only requires yourself... You know the music that you <em>feel <em>as well as hear. The music that doesn't require half naked women in the video to sell, or a 'big' name to introduce 'credibility' for those people that buy into it for the name attached. I always thought music was free from pretention, free from image- but I guess that's a little naïve and optimistic of me.

I find someone I recognise, someone from the bar I work at- Mark. He's a nice guy, a fun guy mostly too. He's not exactly the most intellectually stimulating of people to converse with but hey ho. Half the time he's good at curing the boredom then the other half he makes you want to have a law implemented to wean these people out of society at birth (you know like the Darwin Awards philosophy- improving society by taking certain people out the gene pool) because of some of the colossally stupid things he says at times. Once we were talking about the strangest animals we'd ever eaten. I'd once eaten reindeer to which he laughed at giving me a weird and confused look. Not getting the reaction I'd anticipated I questioned just why the hell he was looking at me as if I had three heads. He then says; "Reindeer aren't real you know? You do know they pull Santa's sleigh right?" He then laughs hysterically, "And dear, Santa's not real." Oh wow. Oh dear Lord. I ignored the condescending use of the term 'dear' and focused more on the fact that he was completely serious. Oh well some people are lost causes I guess. But hey ho leave your brain behind and he's good to get along with.

"Emily!" He cries, his eyes lighting up in delight. He opens his arms and moves towards me, a social trap that means in order to be polite I now have to hug him- he's all sweaty, his longish brown hair sticking to his forehead. He wraps me up in a hug, and I notice that despite looking a little over partied he smells pretty damn good- you know that typical man smell. Just as I try and pull out of the hug a force shoves me right back into Mark and we both nearly topple over. Luckily the person Mark fell back into was a pretty hefty guy who provided a nice pillar halting our fall, thus fortunately avoiding a very embarrassing and painful domino effect, which I'm sure would have resulted in someone's drink going into my face. I feel myself being tugged back slightly and I manage to get onto sturdy footing. I glance back seeing Marcel release his teeth from the bottom of my jacket, I grin at him to which he barks back at me. I turn back around to Mark and hold out my hand, looking a little sheepish, pulling Mark back up. He laughs and shakes his head.

"Whoops sorry mate" I say, chuckling also.

"Aww don't worry about it, you get lost in the crowd Em." He says whilst messing up my hair.

I slap his hand away jokingly scowling at him. He's right I do get lost in the crowd. "Not my fault God gave you all the height." It's true he has got to be at least 6 foot tall, but he's pretty skinny so he couldn't weigh more than 11 stone.

"Haha yeah because you really believe in God Em!" I must give off a strong atheist vibe or something because I have never talked about religion with this guy, it's always light-hearted safe subjects.

"Yeah whatever" I say rubbing the back of my neck- a habit I do whenever I'm uncomfortable. The whole God issue isn't one that's ever been pleasant for me. My parents both were fairly Christian, but I never really believed in it all. I never truly did believe in the existence of God so I guess my feelings were inevitable. But it doesn't stop me from feeling on edge- religion is a tricky business. It has the power to do great evil and great good- a flip coin that I was never comfortable being on the edge of.

Marcel nudges his nose against my knee, reminding me he was there I guess. That's the thing with Marcel- he looks after me not only physically, but emotionally he's a fucking dream. He never lets me feel alone. And that has never once been stifling as I thought it might be. He's just like another part of me. And as lame as this reference is, I always think of Phillip Pullman's Dark Materials- where Lyra has a dæmon who is supposed to be a literal manifestation of her soul- her eternal companion. In theory anyways. What can I say; Marcel is awesome.

A new song comes on through the stereo- Lotus Flower by Radiohead. Man this song is cool. Everyone seems to agree as some people are cheering and everyone gets closer, impossibly closer. The type of close where your breathing other peoples air, strangers become your best friends and everyone in the room is a part of the collective beat. I down the rest of my drink- and fuck me is it strong. Not being arsed to hold the bottle I let if fall to the floor. Mark puts his arm round my shoulders, he looks down at me and grins. The room is jumping, spinning, hollering, laughing- finally every good 'ing' you can think of. And fuck is this fun. Pure unapologetic joy.

* * *

><p>I groan- pretty fucking loudly I must admit. All I know is the weight that's pressing down on my left hip, my pounding head and my dry as the Sahara Desert mouth. I'm laying down I know that. I try and roll over or move but I'm sandwiched somehow. I open my eyes, and fuck me is it bright. I put my arm over my eyes emitting another unattractive moan. I feel the weight on my hip shift, and I don't need to look to be able to recognise that it's Marcel. Keeping my eyes fiercely shut I move my arm to pat Marcel on the head. Clearly ignoring my act of love, I feel a wet cold sensation on my stomach where my top had ridden up. I jerk upwards in shock where something's hits me right in the head. Not being able to hold in I swear; "Ah Jesus fucking Christ!" My arms flew up to my face not expecting such an intrusion into my face. I lean away and look up to see what the offending object was. All I see is a pair of feet clad in heavy army boots hanging over the edge of the sofa. I look around trying to get my bearings. I'm laying to the side of the sofa, so the pair of stupid army boots are hanging over the arm of the couch. Not fully awake I sit up further leaning my back against the arm of the sofa and look around. There's just a load of bodies everywhere, and an even greater number of red plastic cups and bottle s laying alongside. One guy was cuddled up to a huge bottle of half empty cider and using half of it as a pillow while his legs were raised resting on another passed out drunkard. Laying very closely to the left of me was some guy face down with his shirt off. Someone had graffitied all over his back and of course the focal point being a large sketching of a penis. I laugh slightly shaking my head wearily and rubbing my eyes tiredly. I look to the other side and found that both my sleeping neighbours were both in similar positions. This was a girl who still had her jeans on but lacked a top, only wearing a black bra on her upper half. She had dirty blonde hair and was wearing gold aviators. And I have to say she did look pretty good in them. I stopped ogling, suddenly realising how creepy and pervy I was being. I smiled lazily down at Marcel, leaning my head to the right resting it on the army boots, and patted my lap signalling he come a little closer. I wrap my arms around him feeling comforted by his warmth and lusciously soft fur.<p>

I nearly doze off again when I feel someone's presence hovering right in front of me. I open my eyes and see a steaming cup of tea being held under my nose, fuck that smelt so damn good. I'm broken out of my reverie by a soft laugh. I look blearily up and see a familiar face- black curly hair, olive skin, soft kind brown eyes. "You look so adorably happy." She said and laughs again. I grin back up at her really appreciating the familiarity. This had been our sort of morning ritual after a night like this. It took her a while to get the whole making tea thing down pat and even now I have to be honest it's still not like having a brew back in England but I blame that more on the lack of tea products in America rather than my friend's ability at making it. Her name is Amelia she works at the bar with me and Mark. She's the one I clicked with the most out of all the people I work with.

I reach out and take the steaming mug from her bringing it up to my lips and taking a sip. "Ah fuck." I splutter and cough out, my would be saviour is scaldingly hot and my tongue now feels like it's on fire. This earns an even louder laugh from my so called friend who doesn't even look up and keeps on stroking Marcel between the ears, which is annoying because she can't see me narrowing my eyes at her. Not being able to get up or drink my damned tea I watch Amelia spoiling Marcel. His mouth is slightly open so you can see the front row of his teeth so it looks like he's smiling- which I'm sure he is as that's his favourite spot to be rubbed.

I feel movement from beside me and see the half naked guy stretching and groaning. I hold out my hand silently which is taken and I am pulled up on my unsteady feet. "Urgh" I groan. I don't really feel hungover, I've just got a slight headache and that weird feeling you're stomach gets. Amelia laughs at me yet again, I think she's a little bit of a schadenfreude- I always wanted to use that in a sentence, and it's true she really enjoys my misfortune. She puts her arm around my waist in a deliberately overdramatic gesture. We make our way into the kitchen stepping over bottles and other people laying around still sleeping. There's still about half the people that were here at the start of the night laying around in various states of ridiculousness.

I shove a few bottles out the way and sat on top of the kitchen counter whilst Amelia started making herself a coffee. We were re-counting some of the things we could remember the night before, turns out Amelia decided it would be fun for us to have an ice tower contest which was why there was a puddle of water on the floor. The ice tower contest is just where you tower as many ice cubes as you can on top of each other. Apparently she won at a count of 17... Yeah I don't remember even playing let alone her winning. And a height of 17? pft, yeaah bloody right.

An hour or so later the door slams and Cook is singing pretty hoarsely; "If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man! You win some, lose some, still the same to me! Wahwahwahwah wah!" I smile shaking my head, it's a song I will forever associate with Cook especially the guitar solo section. I hear him say; "Rise and shine you lazy buncha tossers!" He then laughs, I hear a thud followed by a groan, then he makes his way through the kitchen door. He's wearing the same clothes as the night before, and well I guess I can't talk so am I. He takes one more drag of the cigarette in his hand which he then stubs out into a random beer can next to him. "I've got some stellar fucking news for you Emsy dearest!" He says as he walks to the fridge, stopping to quickly kiss me on the cheek as he goes. "Hey Ames" He smiles at Amelia.

"Oh yeah?" I ask interested in what's made him so happy. But then knowing that it could very easily be something stupid like that he'd scoffed a chocolate cake for breakfast and it was only 50 cents or some bollocks like that.

"Yeah well" He say with his head inside the fridge as he grabs a can of beer. He the turns around, "We're having some guests" He says acting all nonchalant but with a monumental grin covering his face.

"Oh yeah?" I repeat, eyebrows raised. Now I'm curious.

"Ya know ma man Freds?" He says to which I nod. Cook's told me many stories about his mates back home, and if they're true- which now knowing Cook much better I wouldn't be surprised- then they sound like great fucking mates. "Well they all saved a bit of cash and they're coming 'ere!" He shouts then he wraps his arms around me waist and spins me around smiling like a fool. I laugh too, okay so squeal was more like it- I wasn't expecting it okay. It's great to see Cook really genuinely excited about something that doesn't involve alcohol, girls or something illegal.

"So who's coming then?" I ask as he puts me down.

"Ya know everyone" He says waving his hand and takes a big gulp of the beer, to which I roll my eyes. "Freds of course, ma man JJ, Nai, Eff..."

I glance over at Amelia smiling. She shrugs also smiling. I sit down on the chair at the head of the table and pat the seat of the chair beside me, gesturing for him to sit down.

"So when they coming over then?" Amelia asks.

**If anyone gets the Life Cry reference- the drink with the bleeding polar bear on it then coolbeans :D**

**If not I'll give you a clue- its in a tv programme called Black Books which is brilliant. it has Bill Bailey in it. Tamsin Greig you know from Green Wing and Dylan Moran, the crazy Irishman.**

**oh yeah another footnote. The Darwin Awards is a real thing. It's a satirical blog and now published books where the author Wendy Northcutt collects these stories of people who die in ridiculous ways. Harsh- possibly. Funny- yes. Devastating- yes.**

**Chapter title: A Sunday Smile by Beirut**


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